


Synth Heart

by hilfmichpapa



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, angela is not present, genji is having a hard time, im so sorry, short and bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilfmichpapa/pseuds/hilfmichpapa
Summary: Genji questions himself, and his loyalty to the plane of the living.





	Synth Heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is baby size gency 1shot  
> dedicated 2 k-la

The beat of the organ. The pulse of the artificial blood. The cold he felt in his limbs. She gave him this. Without her, the bittersweet feeling of a machine within him eternally pumping him with life would cease to thrive.

His anger gone, and his forgiveness in surplus, he could not face his lover with this feeling. The feeling of pure pain, and his deep, suppressed anxiety that fed.. Rage? No, this could not be. This wasn’t who he was anymore. He clutched at his chest-plate, holding a picture frame in his other hand. She was the source of his life and love. But did she love him for who he was? Did she love him for what she had built of him? Or was he someone else now?  
  
He was once Genji Shimada. But that was ages ago. He no longer feels the flush of warmth in his fingertips and cheeks.  
  
He didn’t realize snow had gathered in the corner of his windowsill until he saw frost on his visor.  
  
He couldn’t feel it. The cold that is. Normally, when Angela came to check on him, she would ask him how he survived in this weather with the window open. She would have closed it, and turned on a portable heater. She would have whispered sweet nothings to him when he woke up in the middle of the night, what was left of his body covered in a cold sweat, shaken out of fear and sadness. She would have comforted him when he was at his lowest point.  
  
Sometimes meditation doesn’t help.  
  
He took a glance at the picture in the frame. Weathered and stained with blood, it somewhat reminded him of himself. The frame itself was rich, dark wood, carved with love and covered with intricately butchered notches. It represented the craftsmanship of an artisan who had drank too much.

He wondered. Was his conflict real? The pain he felt, was it an algorithm? No. He was human. This is nothing new.

His mind rushed with thoughts, clashing against each other until a hurricane formed within him. The warm winds of his humanity swirling in the cold ocean of his synthetic fiber. The eye of the storm was always her. Even in his worst moments, she remained so calm. So sweet.

He was so tired.


End file.
